AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
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A HELPING HAND
A Roleplay Brought to You By: |
Adrian Wolfe written by AJS Roleplaying |
Delilah (Lilah) Hayward written by Kita-san |
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A Helping Hand (AJS Roleplaying x Kita-san)
- Thread starter AJS Roleplaying
- Start date
Kita-san
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Sep 18, 2019
Delilah carried the drink and fries back toward their lane, her steps unhurried but her mind far from relaxed. The ice clinked in her glass with every movement, but she was barely aware of it—her head was still replaying the sound of his last throw. That sharp, satisfying crash of pins toppling, almost all of them. Nine. She still couldn't believe it. Nine was dangerously close to perfect, close enough to make her chest tighten with a mix of irritation and—God help her—admiration
She set the fries on the small table beside their lane, the warm scent of salt and oil curling up toward her. She took a sip of her drink instead of diving for the food, letting the cold hit her throat while she replayed the moment again. The precision in his release. The way his arm had followed through like he'd done this a hundred times before. He'd wanted that strike—she could see it in his stance, the quiet confidence—and he'd come within one stubborn pin of getting it.
And that was what lit the fuse for her.
She told herself she didn't care about winning. Not really. It was supposed to be fun—just friendly competition, no stakes worth the energy. But that was a lie, and she knew it. Every time he got a clean shot, every time his score ticked ahead of hers, there was this little flicker inside her. Not resentment. Not even bruised pride. Something hungrier. She wanted to match him. To push him. To show him that she wasn't just here to be charming company while he coasted to a win.
The question—Do I want to win? Or do I want to let him have it?—looped in her mind as she pulled a fry from the pile and popped it into her mouth. It was tempting to play it both ways: keep it close, keep the tension sharp, maybe even let him think he had her cornered until she decided to take the game in a final, perfectly timed strike. That would be satisfying in a different way. But then there was the other part of her, the one that wanted to walk up to that lane, line up her shot, and make the pins explode in a clean sweep—just to watch his face when she did it.
Her eyes flicked toward him as she chewed, studying him without letting it look like she was. He was watching her in that way he did—measured, a little too intent to be casual—but she didn't break the glance. She let it hang there for a heartbeat before looking away, her mouth twitching in the smallest hint of a smirk.
Setting her drink down, she wiped her fingers on a napkin and picked up her ball, feeling the weight settle into her palm. Nine pins. He'd set the bar high. Fine. She'd set it higher. If she could get a strike now, it would pull them closer on the scoreboard, but more importantly, it would prove something—maybe to him, maybe to herself. She wasn't sure yet. Either way, she decided as she stepped toward the lane, she was going for it.
The ball warm in her hand now from the way she'd been holding it, her fingers snug in the holes like they belonged there. She took a breath, slow and deep, tasting salt from the fries still on her tongue. The rest of the room faded—the muted thump of music overhead, the clatter of pins from other lanes, the low hum of voices—and all that remained was the long, slick stretch of polished wood ahead of her and that neat, mocking triangle of pins at the far end.
Her mind ran over every throw she'd made tonight, searching for the sweet spot, the rhythm that made the ball spin just enough to glide into the pocket. She adjusted her stance, rolling her shoulders back, grounding her weight through her legs. She didn't want to overthink it—overthinking was the fastest way to miss—but she also wasn't about to let this moment slip by. One step. Two. Three. Her approach was fluid, practiced enough to look effortless even though her heart had picked up speed. She could feel the momentum building in her arm, the subtle torque in her wrist that would decide everything. The ball left her hand in a clean, smooth release, the faintest kiss of spin in its path.
It rolled straight and true, the sound a steady hum over the lane. Halfway there, the curve began—gentle at first, then sharper, drawing it toward the exact spot she'd been aiming for. Her breath caught without her permission. The moment the ball slammed into the front pin, the explosion was immediate—pins scattering left and right in a chaotic spray of white, spinning and tumbling out of sight. In that blink, she knew it. She didn't have to wait for the confirmation; the sound told her before her eyes did.
Strike.
A slow smile crept across her lips as she straightened, turning back toward the table with measured steps, letting the satisfaction settle in her bones. She didn't need to announce it. The scoreboard would do that for her. She winked at Adrian and sat down, letting the silence intensify the moment.
She set the fries on the small table beside their lane, the warm scent of salt and oil curling up toward her. She took a sip of her drink instead of diving for the food, letting the cold hit her throat while she replayed the moment again. The precision in his release. The way his arm had followed through like he'd done this a hundred times before. He'd wanted that strike—she could see it in his stance, the quiet confidence—and he'd come within one stubborn pin of getting it.
And that was what lit the fuse for her.
She told herself she didn't care about winning. Not really. It was supposed to be fun—just friendly competition, no stakes worth the energy. But that was a lie, and she knew it. Every time he got a clean shot, every time his score ticked ahead of hers, there was this little flicker inside her. Not resentment. Not even bruised pride. Something hungrier. She wanted to match him. To push him. To show him that she wasn't just here to be charming company while he coasted to a win.
The question—Do I want to win? Or do I want to let him have it?—looped in her mind as she pulled a fry from the pile and popped it into her mouth. It was tempting to play it both ways: keep it close, keep the tension sharp, maybe even let him think he had her cornered until she decided to take the game in a final, perfectly timed strike. That would be satisfying in a different way. But then there was the other part of her, the one that wanted to walk up to that lane, line up her shot, and make the pins explode in a clean sweep—just to watch his face when she did it.
Her eyes flicked toward him as she chewed, studying him without letting it look like she was. He was watching her in that way he did—measured, a little too intent to be casual—but she didn't break the glance. She let it hang there for a heartbeat before looking away, her mouth twitching in the smallest hint of a smirk.
Setting her drink down, she wiped her fingers on a napkin and picked up her ball, feeling the weight settle into her palm. Nine pins. He'd set the bar high. Fine. She'd set it higher. If she could get a strike now, it would pull them closer on the scoreboard, but more importantly, it would prove something—maybe to him, maybe to herself. She wasn't sure yet. Either way, she decided as she stepped toward the lane, she was going for it.
The ball warm in her hand now from the way she'd been holding it, her fingers snug in the holes like they belonged there. She took a breath, slow and deep, tasting salt from the fries still on her tongue. The rest of the room faded—the muted thump of music overhead, the clatter of pins from other lanes, the low hum of voices—and all that remained was the long, slick stretch of polished wood ahead of her and that neat, mocking triangle of pins at the far end.
Her mind ran over every throw she'd made tonight, searching for the sweet spot, the rhythm that made the ball spin just enough to glide into the pocket. She adjusted her stance, rolling her shoulders back, grounding her weight through her legs. She didn't want to overthink it—overthinking was the fastest way to miss—but she also wasn't about to let this moment slip by. One step. Two. Three. Her approach was fluid, practiced enough to look effortless even though her heart had picked up speed. She could feel the momentum building in her arm, the subtle torque in her wrist that would decide everything. The ball left her hand in a clean, smooth release, the faintest kiss of spin in its path.
It rolled straight and true, the sound a steady hum over the lane. Halfway there, the curve began—gentle at first, then sharper, drawing it toward the exact spot she'd been aiming for. Her breath caught without her permission. The moment the ball slammed into the front pin, the explosion was immediate—pins scattering left and right in a chaotic spray of white, spinning and tumbling out of sight. In that blink, she knew it. She didn't have to wait for the confirmation; the sound told her before her eyes did.
Strike.
A slow smile crept across her lips as she straightened, turning back toward the table with measured steps, letting the satisfaction settle in her bones. She didn't need to announce it. The scoreboard would do that for her. She winked at Adrian and sat down, letting the silence intensify the moment.
OP
OP
AJS Roleplaying
Returning veteran
- Joined
- May 24, 2025
- Location
- The Emerald Isle
A strike with her third throw - clean, decisive, and with a kind of elegance that seemed almost unintentional. Adrian felt the smile tug at his mouth before he even registered it, the warmth of it pressing into his cheeks. Either I'm a really good teacher, or we just discovered your hidden talent, he thought, the words sitting in his mind with the weight of a small truth. The line had that mix of playful pride and reluctant surrender—because, if he was honest, there was something undeniably thrilling about watching her succeed at his expense.
It confirmed something he had already begun to suspect about her, a quiet suspicion that had been sharpening itself ever since they'd stepped into this strange little arena together: Delilah was every bit as competitive as he was. Not just in the obvious way, not just in the way of keeping score or wanting to win, but in something deeper - a need to match, to meet, to challenge. It was in the precision of her aim, the narrowing of her gaze, the unspoken refusal to let him take this one without a fight. It made the air between them hum with a kind of charge, the kind that wasn't entirely about the game at all.
He finished off his first drink, letting the last mouthful burn briefly on the way down before dissolving into a slow, pleasant warmth. There was an impulse to let it linger, to let the slight blur at the edges of things add to the looseness of the night. Instead, he placed the glass aside and reached for another ball. This time, he wanted a strike - needed one. Not just for the numbers on the scoreboard, but for the balance of things. But once again, the strike eluded him, and he could feel the tiniest sting of frustration prick at him. It wasn't enough to sour the mood - nothing tonight could - but it was enough to remind him that he had wanted to come out on top. Not in an obvious, chest-beating way, but in the quiet satisfaction of being the one to set the pace, to be just a little better. And now there was the delicious risk that she might take that away from him.
The game edged toward its final throws, the pins standing like stubborn teeth at the far end of the lane. Each round had narrowed the margin between them, until now - unexpectedly - he led by a single point. A single, precarious point. It was absurd, how much that one point began to matter, how the numbers on a little glowing screen began to mirror something larger, something unspoken. He hadn't anticipated this—hadn't anticipated the way the game would start to feel like a quiet metaphor for the undercurrent moving between them. Every frame felt like a flirtation. Every spare or strike felt like an answer to an unasked question. And every miss carried with it that faint throb of possibility - what it might mean if he lost, what it might mean if she won.
There was a rhythm to it now, a cadence not just in the game but in the way the night was unfolding. Something about the way they existed in this small, enclosed moment, shielded from whatever titles, expectations, or histories followed them outside these walls. Here, they were stripped down to something simpler: two people, a narrow strip of polished wood, and the unyielding certainty of ten pins waiting to be knocked down.
The scoreboard flashed, pulling his focus back to the present. One throw each left. Just one more chance to decide it. The stakes were ridiculous, really - childish even - but he found himself invested in a way that went far beyond rationality. It wasn't about the game anymore, not exactly. It was about the dynamic that had taken root between them, the subtle push and pull, the way neither seemed willing to yield the smallest advantage. The ball in his hand felt heavier now, as if it knew it carried the weight of the evening. He rolled it slowly in his palm, his mind already turning over the possibilities. Victory would be satisfying, yes - but so would the kind of loss that came with the right person.
The last throw loomed between them, almost ceremonial in its anticipation. The air felt charged, bright with the faint thrum of competition and something sharper that neither had put into words. The scoreboard glowed like a quiet dare. One point. One throw. And then it would all be over - or, perhaps, only just beginning. Somewhere beneath it all, beneath the sound of pins scattering and the faint hum of conversation from other lanes, was the awareness that this was about more than numbers. It was about seeing each other fully, about testing the edges of what they were willing to give and what they were determined to keep. It was about not letting the other walk away without knowing exactly where they stood—equal parts playful and dangerous.
And as that awareness settled over him, he realized the truth: whether he won or lost, the night was already his favourite kind of game.
It confirmed something he had already begun to suspect about her, a quiet suspicion that had been sharpening itself ever since they'd stepped into this strange little arena together: Delilah was every bit as competitive as he was. Not just in the obvious way, not just in the way of keeping score or wanting to win, but in something deeper - a need to match, to meet, to challenge. It was in the precision of her aim, the narrowing of her gaze, the unspoken refusal to let him take this one without a fight. It made the air between them hum with a kind of charge, the kind that wasn't entirely about the game at all.
He finished off his first drink, letting the last mouthful burn briefly on the way down before dissolving into a slow, pleasant warmth. There was an impulse to let it linger, to let the slight blur at the edges of things add to the looseness of the night. Instead, he placed the glass aside and reached for another ball. This time, he wanted a strike - needed one. Not just for the numbers on the scoreboard, but for the balance of things. But once again, the strike eluded him, and he could feel the tiniest sting of frustration prick at him. It wasn't enough to sour the mood - nothing tonight could - but it was enough to remind him that he had wanted to come out on top. Not in an obvious, chest-beating way, but in the quiet satisfaction of being the one to set the pace, to be just a little better. And now there was the delicious risk that she might take that away from him.
The game edged toward its final throws, the pins standing like stubborn teeth at the far end of the lane. Each round had narrowed the margin between them, until now - unexpectedly - he led by a single point. A single, precarious point. It was absurd, how much that one point began to matter, how the numbers on a little glowing screen began to mirror something larger, something unspoken. He hadn't anticipated this—hadn't anticipated the way the game would start to feel like a quiet metaphor for the undercurrent moving between them. Every frame felt like a flirtation. Every spare or strike felt like an answer to an unasked question. And every miss carried with it that faint throb of possibility - what it might mean if he lost, what it might mean if she won.
There was a rhythm to it now, a cadence not just in the game but in the way the night was unfolding. Something about the way they existed in this small, enclosed moment, shielded from whatever titles, expectations, or histories followed them outside these walls. Here, they were stripped down to something simpler: two people, a narrow strip of polished wood, and the unyielding certainty of ten pins waiting to be knocked down.
The scoreboard flashed, pulling his focus back to the present. One throw each left. Just one more chance to decide it. The stakes were ridiculous, really - childish even - but he found himself invested in a way that went far beyond rationality. It wasn't about the game anymore, not exactly. It was about the dynamic that had taken root between them, the subtle push and pull, the way neither seemed willing to yield the smallest advantage. The ball in his hand felt heavier now, as if it knew it carried the weight of the evening. He rolled it slowly in his palm, his mind already turning over the possibilities. Victory would be satisfying, yes - but so would the kind of loss that came with the right person.
The last throw loomed between them, almost ceremonial in its anticipation. The air felt charged, bright with the faint thrum of competition and something sharper that neither had put into words. The scoreboard glowed like a quiet dare. One point. One throw. And then it would all be over - or, perhaps, only just beginning. Somewhere beneath it all, beneath the sound of pins scattering and the faint hum of conversation from other lanes, was the awareness that this was about more than numbers. It was about seeing each other fully, about testing the edges of what they were willing to give and what they were determined to keep. It was about not letting the other walk away without knowing exactly where they stood—equal parts playful and dangerous.
And as that awareness settled over him, he realized the truth: whether he won or lost, the night was already his favourite kind of game.